"It means 'Ask the next question.' It's the symbol of everything humanity has ever created,
and is the reason it has been created. This guy is sitting in a cave and he says, 'Why can't man fly?' Well, that's the question.
The answer may not help him, but the question now has been asked. And so all through the ages, people have been trying to find out the answer to that question.
We've found the answer, and we do fly. That's it. Ask the next question. And the one after that." - Theodore Sturgeon

Theodore Sturgeon was considered one of the most influential writers of the
so-called "Golden Age" of science fiction fostered by editor John Campbell from
1938 to 1950. Sturgeon was particularly appreciated for his literary
style, his attention to character and his treatment of important social issues
such as sex, war, and the alienation of those felt to be different from the
norm. His depictions of the American working class and his sensitivity to
strange and disabled people have been likened to Flannery O'Connor, Sherwood
Anderson, and William Faulkner. In his obituary, the New York Times said that
"Sturgeon was, in several senses, the conscience of modern science fiction," and
Kurt Vonnegut called him "One of the best writers in America…certain to
fascinate all sorts of readers, not only science fiction fans." His work is
beloved by younger generations of writers as well, including James Tiptree, Jr.,
Connie Willis, Samuel R. Delany, Michael Chabon, Jonathan Lethem and Nalo
Hopkinson.Read More ->

Ask The Next Question

Copyright Theodore Sturgeon Literary Trust

"It means 'Ask the next question.' It's the symbol of everything humanity has ever created,
and is the reason it has been created. This guy is sitting in a cave and he says, 'Why can't man fly?' Well, that's the question.
The answer may not help him, but the question now has been asked. The next question is what? How? And so all through the ages, people have been trying to find out the answer to that question.
We've found the answer, and we do fly. This is true of every accomplishment, whether it's technology or literature, poetry, political systems or anything else. That's it. Ask the next question. And the one after that." - Theodore Sturgeon

The symbol of the Q with an arrow through it was used by Sturgeon in his signature after the mid-1970s. He also wore it as a necklace.
The symbol appears on the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial award for the year's best science ficiton story, given at the Center for Science Fiction.

The best short story writer in America lives on a hill on the
outskirts of Los Angeles. He works on TV scripts, gives
lectures, teaches a class, writes book reviews and does
introductions to other people's books. That's all. He's sold
four new short stories in the last four years. Of the 23 books
he's written in the course of his career, only three are still
in print in the United States. His old masterpieces are not
being read; and his new ones are not being written. And he has
no one to blame for this state of affairs but himself.

Theodore Sturgeon.

I'm 28 years old (or will be when this is published) and the man
I'm writing about is more than twice my age. And when I was just
half this age, 14, it occurs to me now, I was at a party on the
14th floor of the Pick-Congress Hotel in Chicago at about five
in the morning, the last night of my first science fiction
convention, and Judith Merril, famed anthologist and
author/editor of some of my favorite books, turned to me and
asked -- just about everyone but me had consumed a fair quantity
of alcohol by this time --"Doesn't it bother you to see that
your heroes have feet of clay." And I said, "They couldn't be heroes if
they didn't," or some such clever 14-year-old remark. Then the sun came up over
Lake Michigan while the drunk science fiction writers told stories and sang folk
songs, and I was indeed filled with quiet awe -- not at the great names made
flesh around me, but at whatever miracles had brought me, at age 14, to this
inner sanctum, this place of dreams.

Theodore Sturgeon was Guest of Honor at that particular science fiction
convention (Labor Day Weekend, 1962), and I shook his hand but didn't actually
talk with him. He had his wife and his children with him, and was very much the
center of attention wherever he went in the convention hall, and anyway I had
nothing to say; I loved the man and I loved his stories and there was no way I
could tell him that.

Fourteen years later I visit his home, we talk about anything and everything, I
enjoy his hospitality and see his feet of clay -- we've been friends of a sort
for two or three years now -- and each time I read a story of his he is again my
favorite writer, a worker of miracles; but in between times he's just a friend,
attractive and annoying and as blind as the rest of us...... To write this story
I need a hero, because this is a story of great achievements. But even after
months of careful research, the man slips away from me, he's too human -- I know
him and his life so well but I still can't understand where his miracles come
from.